


summer, ii.

by absolut_svensk



Series: from death to birth. [2]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolut_svensk/pseuds/absolut_svensk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when you spend every waking moment practically joined at the hip, it's impossible not to learn a thing or three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer, ii.

**Author's Note:**

> Companion music for this is Wintersun's "Death and the Healing."  
> (Jari is perfect always and in all ways.)
> 
> This is dedicated to someone. You know who you are, and above all you know what I was getting at with this. I hope it's to your liking!!

_Time is the death and the healing_

_Take your last breath, 'cause death is deceiving_

_Time is the past, now and tomorrow_

_Days fly so fast and it leaves me so hollow._

**Sunday, 3:30 A.M.**

**June, 2000.**

**New York City, NY.**  

They weren’t lying when they said New York City never sleeps.

Skwisgaar Skwigelf sits on the penthouse balcony of the Peninsula hotel, watching the traffic on Fifth Avenue wind along slowly; he can pick out and count the yellow taxicabs, and even here, so far removed from the hustle and bustle of the streets, the noise drifts up. Horns honking, sirens blaring--sometimes chatter, even, and he finds himself wondering idly about the lives of the people awake at such an hour on a Sunday.

At least, he muses to himself, it does cool down here at night; while there’s not much of a breeze, there’s at least a minute reprieve from the heat--which he can greatly appreciate after having spent the better part of the evening and night in a sweaty concert hall in the Bowery. Having had his fill of women and drugs and drink--and needing more rest than his usual on account of a nagging head cold--he took his leave about an hour ago, leaving Pickles and Nathan and Murderface to have their run of the place, and their pick of the sloppy seconds.

He’s staring off into space, working on his third consecutive cigarette and mapping out a possible drumline for Pickles when they get to work on their next demo, when he hears the sliding glass door open. He doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. 

‘What are you doing up?’ 

Toki still moves as awkwardly as he did a year ago, his steps slow, calculated, the look in his eyes uncertain. He’s got such a pretty face, well on his way to being handsome, but his brow is always knitted with concern, mouth perpetually turned down at the corners.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Hm?’ Skwisgaar leans back, staring over at Toki lazily. ‘Drink some warm milk. That usually works for you.’

‘Can’t.’

‘Stomach?’

He doesn’t mean to sound like he cares, because he knows full well that caring isn’t brutal, but when you live in extremely close quarters with another human being, when you spend every waking moment practically joined at the hip, it’s impossible not to learn a thing or three about them. From what Skwisgaar’s gleaned of Toki, he’s massively immature for his age in some ways (and wise beyond his years in others, not that Skwisgaar would admit it), handles stress poorly, sleeps abysmally, and often struggles to keep his food down if he’s particularly worked up over something. It would seem tonight is one of those nights--not that Skwisgaar begrudges him the sky-high stress levels. This is their first real tour, with a tour bus that’s just for them and a nice hotel and a backstage rider and all the works; he’d be a hypocrite if he chastised Toki for worrying about the same things he himself has been. 

Toki nods, folding his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched.

‘You tried the Tums?’

‘Didn’t work.’ Toki shuffles nervously, twisting a lock of mousy-brown hair around his forefinger. By the looks of him, he’s not even showered since they finished their set hours ago, and Skwisgaar knows full well he opted to leave the afterparty quite early. ‘How’s your throat?’

‘Toki.’ Skwisgaar stares at him flatly. Toki cringes. They’ve had this conversation a thousand times before; Toki cares too much about all of them, and while his mother-henning is awkwardly endearing in the same way a puppy tripping over its own feet is, it’s also annoying when it happens constantly. Even so, the hoarseness and congestion in his voice are telling. ‘I’m fine. Stop asking.’ 

Toki looks wounded, but nods. He knows Skwisgaar’s far too proud to admit he’s not feeling well--and he also knows that _he_ is the only one who’d ever dare be stupid enough to point it out. The closest any of the others came to doing so was Nathan’s casual observation that Skwisgaar had only slept with four girls that night, and it smacked more of teasing than genuine concern.

Skwisgaar’s brow furrows for a moment, and he chews his lip, seemingly lost in thought. Finally, he turns back to Toki with an air of resolution. ‘If I show you something, will you rest a little easier?’ 

(Naturally, Toki nods.)

Skwisgaar stands slowly, like it hurts him to move, and stubs his cigarette out. ‘Come on, then. I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.’

\----

Thirty minutes later and they’re sitting cross-legged on Skwisgaar’s bed, his laptop positioned between the two of them, Logic Pro open. Toki can’t help but watch him, enraptured, as he syncs all the files and preps the playback, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, reading glasses perched on the end of his elegant hook-nose. He’s tied his hair back in a ponytail, too, and that--coupled with the huge sweater he’s wearing--makes him look wonderfully at ease. It’s such a rarity for his haughtiness to give way to the other side of him--a natural intensity, the trademark of a truly brilliant individual--and Toki absolutely revels in it.

‘It’s a little bit experimental,’ Skwisgaar prefaces as he hands Toki his headphones, sniffling and rubbing the end of his nose almost nervously. ‘I don’t imagine we’d ever put it out on a record, but... I... I don’t know. When I _do_ sleep, I dream stuff like this up, and I have to get it down before I lose it.’

It’s an impressive piece, clocking in at over thirteen minutes of swelling guitars, keyboards, a growling bassline, and pounding drums, telling a story of snow and desolation, of a crushing, overwhelming sense of loss. The look on Toki’s face as he listens is one of mounting amazement. He’d always pegged Skwisgaar as the quietly-intelligent type, and the fact that he can compose for not only guitar and bass, but for drums as well, is truly commendable. And--

‘--Is that _you_ singing?’  

The fact that Skwisgaar won’t meet his eyes is telling.

‘ _Skwisgaar_ ,’ Toki breathes, ‘--this is amazing, I--’

Skwisgaar holds up his hand and shakes his head, cutting Toki off. ‘ _Don’t_.’

(Toki swears he sees Skwisgaar’s cheeks darken by a shade or two.)

‘You’d never show this to Nathan?’ Granted, it’s vastly different from their sound, practically an opus in its own right, but at least _some_ of the chord progressions could be liberated, and--

‘This is for me,’ Skwisgaar says a bit defensively, snatching the laptop and headphones back. ‘This isn’t Dethklok. This is _Skwisgaar_. I don’t like my creativity to feel limited--by anything. Including genre.’ An uncomfortable pause. ‘There. I showed you something. Can you sleep now?’

‘Can I stay here?’ 

The corners of Skwisgaar’s mouth twitch. He pushes his glasses up. ‘Bribe me.’

Toki returns five minutes later with a cup of tea and a hopeful look in his eyes.

It works.

\----

By the time Toki wakes, there’s faint light streaming in through the curtains; he figures it’s close to dawn. He lies there in silence for a moment, pretending to still be asleep and discreetly watching Skwisgaar, who’s still at it with his computer even so many hours later. By the looks of it, he didn’t sleep so much as a wink, although the teacup is conspicuously empty and he’s surrounded by a heap of used tissues. He’s got his guitar in his lap, plugged into the laptop, and is twanging away faintly, his fingers dancing up and down the neck with ease. He nods his head in tune with the beat of whatever it is he’s working on, his eyes slipping shut, brows knitted together with concentration.

(The look of utter bliss on his face is breathtaking.)

Toki props himself up on one arm. ‘You didn’t sleep at all?’

Skwisgaar stops short, glances over at him, and actually smiles a bit; Toki fancies it’s the most beautiful sight in the world. ‘No,’ he murmurs, tapping the end of his cigarette against the ashtray on his bedside table, ‘I’m a bit of an insomniac, I think--I have a lot of trouble when we move around, you know? Especially towards the end of a tour. Or--’ another one of those beautiful, quiet little laughs, ‘--when it’s hot out. Like tonight.' 

Even so, he’s well-aware that his eyes look tired, that his voice is hoarse and stuffy, and that here, in the climate-controlled bedroom of their suite, the sticky nighttime air can’t reach him. It’s just so hard to turn off his creativity sometimes; there’s perpetual music in his head, and it’s only after he’s gotten it all out that he can ever find any rest.

Reluctantly he sets his laptop aside, reclining back against the pillows. There’s no sense in trying to put up a fight when Toki’s awake and probably energetic enough to argue him to death over it; he can already see the beginnings of an argument taking shape on those lips and he’s not having any of it.

Toki tugs up the silk blankets, giving them an almost guilty look, like he’s still afraid to touch anything this nice. Even just a few short months ago, he couldn’t have fathomed something so lavish and luxurious for _another_ person, let alone for himself, for the band. It’s a far cry from a muggy apartment deep in Broward County, and Toki takes a moment to gaze out the window and up at the stars, thanking whatever beings out there that have conspired to aid them in their successes.  

(It’s the first time Skwisgaar’s opened up to him, too, and of the two milestones, Toki fancies that’s the far more important one. He’d gladly sleep on the floor of a roach-infested dump if it meant he could get closer to the one human being he’s ever genuinely admired. Skwisgaar’s light shines so brightly that the sun itself ought to be jealous, and brighter still when he smiles. He’s normally such a somber, introspective individual, a quiet musical genius, possessed of a brilliant intellect--one that he tragically downplays. And he’s so charming, so unconventionally handsome; really, he ought to--) 

‘--Smile more often.’

‘Hm?’ Skwisgaar glances up abruptly; by all indications, he’d been on the verge of falling asleep right then and there. ‘You said something?’

Toki, as it turns out, is a blusher, and there’s something oddly endearing about an oversized man-boy who wears his big dumb heart on his sleeve so plainly. Part of Skwisgaar wants to reach out and pinch those stupid, shapely cheeks, with their rosy-red blush and silky-smooth skin.

‘You ought to smile more often.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ Skwisgaar sounds ready to laugh, but coughs wetly instead. The sound makes Toki wince, though the icy look Skwisgaar shoots him ensures he doesn’t so much as make a peep. ‘Tokes, _du sav_. What a dumb thing to say. Go back to sleep. You’re still a stupid child--you need your rest.’  

And yet, when he turns back to Toki, settling against the pillows with a sigh, his mouth is mysteriously turned up at the corners. Curiouser still is the fact that he doesn’t push Toki away when he tries to draw closer; normally, all of his advances (Skwisgaar knows them for what they are) are met with rebukes or rebuffs, but tonight, either all the fight’s completely gone out of him, or he, in his time of need, is more open to the idea of closeness and comfort.

(For his part, Toki likes to think it’s the latter.)

He’s not at all surprised when he feels Toki’s hand slipping under the hem of his shirt, because the kid’s always trying to touch him in one way or another: his hand against the small of Skwisgaar’s back when he’s trying to get his attention, their elbows bumping when they huddle in the backstage dressing room, putting the finishing touches on their corpse paint before the start of a show. 

(Or, like tonight, his cheek resting against Skwisgaar’s shoulder for a split second during their onstage duel; the fans were so enraptured by the fast licks and screaming guitars that they likely missed it, but Skwisgaar himself certainly didn’t.)

Instead, he just stares up at the ceiling, neither rewarding nor punishing the behavior, waiting to see what Toki will do. He knows full well the kid wants it, wants _him_ , but something about it seems almost wrong. Toki’s innocence is as erotic as it is, well... _endearing_ , and Skwisgaar almost _doesn’t_ want to be the one to corrupt him--it’s like plucking the feathers off an angel’s wings.  

\--Even he is surprised when he feels soft lips against the bare skin of his neck, when rough, callused hands dance over the smooth skin of his torso. And then those kisses grow lower and lower and Skwisgaar feels a heat pool in a part of him that oughtn’t ever feel warm in the presence of this child. 

(He feels it, though. And Toki must know he does because that’s the next place his mouth is.) 

\---- 

‘Can I tell you a secret?’

Toki rolls over to face Skwisgaar, and there’s a certain sort of unreadable gleam in his eyes, the corners of his mouth tugged up just so, like he’s vaguely amused. His hair’s still tousled from their debauchery; it makes him undeniably more attractive in the most _verboten_ of ways.

Skwisgaar eyeballs the cherry of his cigarette. ‘What?’

‘This is the first time I’ve ever been wanted,’ Toki says, edging closer. Finally, he decides to be bold and rests his chin atop Skwisgaar’s abdomen, and this time when Skwisgaar coughs, he doesn’t stop Toki from rubbing his chest.

(Up close like this, the difference a year makes is incredibly obvious; it’s like Toki went from boy to man overnight with a change of clothes, some good food, and the sprouting of nascent facial hair. He’s been trying to grow out a beard--Skwisgaar can tell by the roughness of his chin--but thus far, it seems, all his efforts have been in vain. Either way, he certainly makes for a feast for the eyes: a youthful face with wide, innocent eyes, sharply contrasted by a strong jaw, thick neck, broad chest, a narrow waist, powerful legs. With a little time and TLC, he’ll be a beautiful sight to behold; he’s already well on his way, having taken to aging much like a fine wine does.)

‘You mean wanted... for sex?’ Skwisgaar raises an eyebrow. Toki’d taken to his dick like a hungry kid to a lollipop, and while part of him _seriously_ doubts the kid’s a virgin on account of it, Toki is as big and dumb and innocent as a six-week-old Labrador retriever--and just as eager to please--so him being one is equally plausible.

‘For anything, really.’ Toki shrugs. ‘Wanted for sex, or for being friends. Or wanted in a band.’ He chews his lower lip absentmindedly, walks his fingers up Skwisgaar’s abdomen, letting his forefinger dip into his navel, then up his chest. A callused thumb begins to languidly rub his nipple. ‘Or for being me.’ 

Skwisgaar wants desperately to be argumentative, but everything about Toki and his body language makes a compelling case against it. Instead, he just shrugs. ‘Stranger things have probably happened.’

It’s plainly obvious that there’s something else on his mind, though; he won’t look at Toki and keeps wringing his hands as though he’s in need of a distraction. Toki picks up on it immediately, digs through the pockets of his discarded pants, and flicks something at Skwisgaar.

‘Guitar pick for your thoughts.’

Skwisgaar lets out a little snort of laughter, turning the pick over in his hand; he gives a hangnail a mighty tug and sticks his finger in his mouth when it starts to bleed. ‘You ask me a lot of questions. So, if I ask you one, are you gonna answer me honestly?’

Toki shrugs. ‘Sure--since it’s _you_ who’s asking.’

His blunt honesty almost stings a little. Skwisgaar chews his lip, spends an eternity figuring out how to say it. Normally, he doesn’t give a second thought to other people, to their trials and tribulations; he prefers living in his own world instead, wrapped up in music, in arpeggios and harmonic thirds. But there’s just... something about Toki. Maybe it’s because they’re from such a  similar cultural background. Maybe it’s because Toki’s young and dumb. Maybe it’s something else entirely. 

(He still can’t quite meet Toki’s eyes when he asks.)

‘How’d you get all those scars on your back?’ 

Toki cringes. ‘You... remember those?’

‘It’s not something you can just forget, Toki.’ Skwisgaar’s trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice almost sounds tight in his throat. ‘I’ve been wondering about them for a long time. How you got them. Why... why you were trying to hide them. From me, even.’

‘Really?’ He sounds genuinely incredulous. ‘You... could have asked, you know.’ 

‘Didn’t know how to bring it up.’ Skwisgaar hesitates for a moment, then edges a little bit closer. Toki knows an invitation when he sees one, and he’s all too happy to curl up against the Swede’s chest, listening to his breath rattling around in his lungs, to his fast, fluttery heartbeat. ‘Without being, you know... insensitive.’

Toki’s silent for a long while. Finally, he shrugs a bit, wraps an arm around Skwisgaar’s torso, closes his eyes. ‘I was a bad kid, I guess,’ he says simply.

Those words make Skwisgaar’s stomach turn in spite of himself. God--he’d thought his own childhood was bad, but _Toki_ \--

‘If you ever... you... you know--’ Skwisgaar gestures vaguely, one slender hand tangling in Toki’s hair, ‘--I’ll... take you out for a beer or something. If you want.’ Because what else _can_ he say? No amount of caring could undo a hurt of that magnitude. But maybe every act of kindness, no matter how small, can make it sting a little bit less, and goddamn but it sure is easy as pie to make the little dildo happy.  

‘Just take care of yourself, Skwis. That’s all I really want. I can take care of me. I’ve been doing it for a long time.’ 

When he talks like that, he sounds so much older than eighteen, and then he smiles and he’s young and innocent all over again. Skwisgaar just sighs and closes his eyes, although Toki--who suddenly seems far more at ease--falls asleep far before he does.

(It’s no coincidence that Skwisgaar’s next composition, which he begins working on immediately upon waking the next morning, is the story of a phoenix rising from the ashes.)

**Author's Note:**

> Toki is 18 here; Skwisgaar is 25.  
> And yes, I do think Skwis wears reading glasses. Not only that, but I think he's an incredibly brilliant person in general; not just with music, but in terms of his actual intellect. He's probably quite articulate--at least in his native tongue--but for whatever reason, I think he downplays it.
> 
> (Because who could write solos like that without being genuinely brilliant? After all, there's a technical, almost mathematical, aspect to music--especially in classical and metal.)
> 
> I think he's also got nicknames and/or pet names for Toki; often, they're based in Swedish insults, but--as with most things--it's not what you say, it's how you say it.  
> For the record, 'du sav' doesn't translate well to English, but the closest approximation I can give is 'you silly sap.' 
> 
> This isn't how I'd envisioned this part going at all, but oddly enough, I'm actually (at least somewhat) satisfied with it this time. It's not perfect, but nothing ever is, anyways.
> 
> Maybe this time I won't pull a Nathan and delete the whole thing, pfft.


End file.
